


Fault Lines

by damnmads



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Badass Married Kings, Damen and Laurent support each other, Damen and Nikandros' friendship, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Political Intrigue, Post-Kings Rising, Self-Doubt, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 07:00:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13335906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnmads/pseuds/damnmads
Summary: Perhaps the longest day in Akielon history for the two kings. Takes place on the last day of a political summit in Akielos, a few years after canon.





	Fault Lines

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write about Damen and Nik's friendship / interactions post-canon, and maybe explore some of the tension there. Also wanted to think about some self-doubt Damen may develop after having taken the throne pretty suddenly and unceremoniously. Of course, there's plenty of Laurent and Damen supporting each other, both professionally and emotionally. Lastly, the kyroi characters you meet (with the exception of Nik, Makedon, Heiron, and Meniados), are my own creations. I apologize if I got some details about the different Akielon provinces wrong, it was hard to find info online and I didn't want to scour the novels. Enjoy!

 

The tension in the courtroom could barely be contained by the lofty ceilings. The kings and their council had been trapped in a meeting since sunrise, and by this point the giant had almost reached its peak in the sky above them. As the heat poured in through open doorways, the weary residents of the room greedily languished in any ocean breeze that found its way into the secluded part of the palace.

Seated around the table were the kyroi from each of the Akielon provinces. Nearest to the front sat Nikandros: Kyros of Ios and closest acquaintance of King Damianos. Across from him sat Makedon: newly appointed Kyros of Delpha and rumored friend to the King of Vere. Next to Makedon sat officials from the northern provinces of Akielos: Sicyon, Dice, Kesus, and Mellos. On Nikandros’ side of the table sat men and women from the southernmost provinces: Isthmia, Thrace, Aegina, and begrudgingly to Nikandros, the Kryos of Ellium: Ermolay.

At the head of the grand oak table sat two twin thrones carved from stone. Upon them: the Kings of Akielos and Vere. One laced tightly to the throat in black silks, as was the current fashion in Vere, and the other wearing a loose chiton with golden embroidery, pinned with a heavy gold lion clasp. Sweat gathered at their temples as a week of sleepless nights and unending days tore at their composure.

Damianos and Laurent had called together these men and women in order to finalize a document addressing the problem of slavery within Akielos. This week long summit in Ios had been the culmination of several years’ work towards one singular goal: a series of regulations that dealt with the acquirement and treatment of slaves in Akielos.

Upon both of their ascensions several years prior, the Kings realized that abolishing slavery within Akielos was not a short-term affair. It was perhaps not even a process that could be completed in one generation — but one that had to span many. Something they _could_ change, however, was the treatment of all current slaves in Akielos.

During Theomedes’ reign, there was no age restriction to slavery, nor was there any system of compensation or income. And there certainly weren’t written and enforceable rights allotted to slaves. In some ways, the pets of Vere had more rights than the slaves of Akielos.

There had been dissent early on from the Akielon officials presently seated at the high table. Some officials did not want to part with their endless riches to to pay household and pleasure slaves a meager wage. Others who favored young boys and girls did not wish to see their predilections land them in the dungeons or with their head upon a spike. Damianos and Laurent had put years of work into getting the good-will of these officials, and this summit would yield the ten signatures needed in order to finally enact the constitution.

The Akielon seated near Nikandros: Ermolay of Ellium, had shown steadfast resistance to every suggestion of the kings over the years. They required either his vote or his resignation to proceed with their plans. He did not intend to give it easily, though. Laurent had suspected for some time that he favored young boys, and did not want to give up his position in the court, or his household of slaves. When Laurent had shared this with Damianos, he had desired to immediately strip him of his position — and his life — but Laurent had to remind his husband that there was no precedent in Akielos for dismissing a member of the council simply for their taste in lovers, however vile it may be.

The night before had been a sleepless one for both kings. Months of non-stop work had kept their schedules overburdened, neither having time for anything other than discussions of state, letter-writing, and meetings. Laurent was quick to irritate and quicker to offend, as he had stopped eating regularly in order to accommodate his busy days. Similarly, Damianos had grown restless and aggravated as the work prevented him from his usual outlets of sparing and sports.

Additionally, Laurent had come down with a slight illness a few weeks before when he and Makedon’s hunting party had been caught in a summer downpour for several hours. Nightmares had preyed on his weakened mind, preventing both he and Damianos from resting peacefully. Laurent's tumultuous recovery had only worsened their moods, and at the final day of the summit, stress was at its peak.  

Simply put, Damianos and Laurent that day had resolved to either break down Ermolay’s will, or to find an excuse to kick him out of the palace without raising suspicion. Ermolay had similarly set out to convince the other members of the council that the kings were delusional young men who did not know what was best for the country, in a last ditch effort to prevent the new legislature from passing. That is the stage as it had been set that morning, and as it had remained for nearly six hours since.

“Respectfully,” Ermolay interrupted, “the Exalted’s time in Vere has tainted his judgement.”

Damianos’ fingers halted their rhythmic tapping on the arm of his throne.

“The slaves in Akielos would not know what to do with an income,” he continued. “They were never taught anything of money, of economy, or tax. They could not support themselves. They know nothing!”

Laurent had heard Ermolay’s farcical argument countless times. To claim a slave knows nothing of the world is to claim a soldier knows nothing of death. Nicaise, Erasmus, Aimeric, even Isander — all that they endured in life had taught them much of the vile nature of the world, and the power of coin, especially.

Damen’s attention caught on the first part of Ermolay’s attack, however. Criticism of Damen’s judgement was not new, but it felt exceptionally personal for the king. There had been whispers that Damen was unfit for the crown, that he was a changed man after being sent away to a hostile nation all those years ago. Damen believed that the compassion and empathy he gained from Vere was true, but he could not help but wonder if he had grown into a man different from the one his father imagined him to be; and if this new man was one his father would even want to call his son.

Laurent dared a glance at his husband, and was unsurprised to find his brow furrowed over tired eyes in a look of intense animosity. The deep purple hue under his bottom lashes, mirrored on Laurent as well, made him quite an intimidating sight to behold. As the rage stewed inside Damen’s chest, Laurent decided to hold his own tongue for now — interested to see how he dealt with this delicate diplomatic situation.

Laurent looked around the room to gauge the mood during Ermolay’s speech, and would’ve laughed at the similarity between Damen and Nikandros’ expressions, were he not feeling similarly aggravated himself. Ermolay continued his tirade.

“To be enslaved in Akielos is a luxury. Slaves don’t fight, they don’t know of politics. All they do is laze around and wait to get fucked–”

Damen slammed his fist against the arm of the throne, the metal of his golden cuff striking against the stone to make a resounding and unpleasant noise that lasted for several moments in the cavernous hall, and left deafening silence in its wake.

“You know nothing of what you speak,” Damen finally seethed in thick Akielon.

“Of course, Exalted. You know infinitely more about the docility of enslavement than I.”

Nikandros shot out of his chair and gestured roughly toward Ermolay.

“You cannot speak to the king in this manner,” he barked. “Exalted, permission to challenge him to a duel.”

Damen held a firm hand up to signal his refusal, eyes not leaving Ermolay’s. Nikandros let out a short and irritated breath, but let his body drop back down into his chair.

Ermolay, who had at this point risen out of his own chair in restless anger, watched with increasing trepidation as King Damianos slowly lifted out of his throne and strode over to Ermolay, who found himself tilting his head to retain his glare, given Damen’s height. Only until there was a foot between them did he begin to show any sign of regret.

Ermolay cleared his throat to speak, but before a sound could come out, Damen began to speak in a low but clear voice.

“If I had the mind of my husband, I may consider forcing you to participate in the very way of life you have mocked.” Ermolay swallowed. “However, I know firsthand the strength one must have to endure it. And so I know that you would not survive even one day.”

Ermolay withered under the force of his King’s glare.

“You are dismissed.”  

Damen signaled the guards to escort Ermolay out of the courtroom. Still standing, he let his penetrating gaze drag over every member of the council still present.

“We will reconvene at sunset.”

With that, Damen began making his exit, turning his weary eyes to Laurent’s and lingering there a moment before continuing towards the main entrance. The guards opened the heavy double doors to allow him through before closing them once again with a deep thud.  

The rest of the council’s silent attention fell to Laurent.

“If any of you harbor the same opinions as that man, you are free to voice them now. I would hate to let the King’s suggestion go untried.”

Silence.

“Excellent.” Laurent elegantly rose from his throne and made his exit as well, leaving behind the sounds of rustling paper and hushed whispers.  

»»--------------------¤--------------------««

Nikandros rose from his chair as soon as the doors closed behind Laurent. As the rest of the council members gathered their parchment and whispered their misgivings, the kyros set a quick and heavy pace, gambling that in his frustrated state Damianos would immediately set out for the training ring.

The past months had been unpleasant for Nikandros. He had barely gotten to speak with his oldest friend except about the new regulations they hoped to put forward. Damen had stopped frequenting the training grounds because of his busy schedule, and any free time left to him was spent sleeping in his chambers next to his Veretian King. Damen, who used to have all the free time in the world to spend with Nikandros, was now irrationally dead-set on changing the entire nature of the slave system in Akielos. As a result, Nikandros felt as though his greatest friend, whose life he had both mourned and celebrated, was now a stranger to him.

He turned the last corner that opened into the hot and humid arena, where he caught Damen as he began to shed the heavy red cloak and unclasp his lion-pin, letting the chiton settle around his waist. Nikandros could tell by the tightness of his shoulders that Damen was truly upset. He wondered what part of Ermolay’s speech had rankled him the most. Personally, Nikandros felt that his presence alone had been a disgrace to the council and to the throne. Nikandros shed his cloak as well, throwing it down upon the nearest bench.

“Why didn’t you banish that disrespectful _μαλάκας_ sooner, Damen? You can’t let him plant those seeds of doubt in the rest of the council, it will be your undoing.”

“If I had dismissed him sooner, the other members would begin to talk.” Damen’s voice was carefully tempered.

“Is that what your lover told you? Three years ago you would not hesitate to punish anyone who spoke out of turn.”

“I am King, now. That kind of behavior isn’t reasonable anymore.”

Nikandros scoffed.

“Your father would’ve had no qualms with it.”

“I am not my father, Nikandros!” Damen threw down the lion-pin, which had been stuck into his palm with the force of his grip. From the ground, Nikandros saw the sharp golden needle glint in the light with blood. He did not understand why Damen was upset to this extent. He did not understand much about Damen, these days.

“No, you certainly aren't.” Nikandros felt regret before the words finished coming out. But he felt anger too, at his friend.

Damen heaved a great breath and glared at Nikandros.

“Fight me.” Damen said, almost under his breath.

“I’m not going to fight you,” Nikandros said, though he did see the appeal.

“Fight me” he said again, much louder. So loud, in fact, it drew the attention of a few servants nearby.

“You need to calm down,” Nikandros seethed, noticing their growing audience. “Do you have any idea–”

“Do you know how it feels to be enslaved, Nikandros?” Damen said in a loud voice.

Nikandros was taken by surprise at Damen’s attack, and bristled at the accusatory tone.

“How can I be calm when I know there are children in _my_ country who are at the whim of some old man’s perverted fantasies. Men and women who are beaten and abused because there is no law to prevent it. We’ve been sleeping on this for too long. Akielos needs to change!”

“This is too big for you, Damen! You cannot change a tradition over five hundred years old.” He gestured roughly to Damen, “You’re not thinking clearly.”

“ _You’re_ not thinking clearly. How can you deny the suffering within this country?

“There is no more suffering now than there ever has been.”

“And if I was sold into slavery again? Would you care for change, then?”

Nikandros scoffed. “That will never happen. You’re a king, not a slave.”

“I have lived as both!”

It was this very fact that caused the rift between them. Damen was shaped by his experiences in Vere — though Nikandros remained unsure of the extent of his abuse there. Both men feared the gulf that had been torn between them was insurmountable, but both were too stubborn and proud to attempt to cross it.

“Will you truly not bow to reality?” Damen asked furiously.

“I cannot acknowledge a reality which has been so twisted by experience,” Nikandros spit.

In their agitated states, neither noticed the growing crowd of guards and slaves that their shouts had attracted. Both had been rendered speechless by the stubbornness of the other. Just as Damen was about to throw his weight at Nikandros, a hard cry cut through the arena.

“Damianos!” Laurent shouted, appearing as several guards rushed to make a pathway for the King.

Damen’s eyes didn’t leave Nikandros’, both of their chests heaving with adrenaline at the near brawl.

Laurent strode up to them, disregarding Nikandros completely and putting a firm hand in the center of Damen’s chest, exerting a noticeable amount of strength. His gaze demanded that Damen meet it, and he did with a sharp flick.

“Get out.” Laurent ordered, his eyes steeled and grey.

He felt Damen’s chest give a monstrous heave before he felt the pressure behind his hand lessen as Damen turned away and exited the arena. Before he could turn to address Nikandros, Laurent’s eyes caught on the bloodied lion-pin resting on the ground. He gracefully bent to pick it up, tucking it into some pocket within his Veretian suit.

Laurent stood and turned his unreadable gaze to Nikandros, whose shoulders hadn’t relaxed at all. Their cold eyes met.

“Follow me.” He said, in a quiet but unyielding voice.

Laurent turned and swiftly exited the arena as the guards once again attempted to create a pathway. As Laurent made his way inside, his harsh voice cut through the poorly-disguised whispers.

“The spectacle is over. Return to your posts.”

»»--------------------¤--------------------««

Laurent and Nikandros walked silently but briskly through the bright white halls. Only when they turned into the royal wing did Nikandros realize where Laurent was bringing them: the King’s private quarters. The thought made Nikandros uncomfortable in a new way. He had often gone to Damen’s old rooms. He and his friend’s misadventures had needed a home-base, and Damen’s rooms were the perfect place to speak in private. He had even slept haphazardly on the floor after their nights of drinking and debauchery.

Nikandros had not been in this area of the palace for many years, however. It was inappropriate without Damen, and he and Nikandros had found no need to speak privately since his return. In addition, the rooms now shared an owner, who would likely not appreciate Nikandros visiting in the night.

Nikandros followed Laurent as they finally arrived at their door, guarded by two Akielon men. Laurent pushed the door open and entered the room, and Nikandros walked through the sill after him, deliberately refusing eye contact with the guards’ poorly concealed looks of confusion and suggestiveness at perhaps the Veretian King’s first private visitor. Nikandros could not decide whether he coughed to conceal a laugh or a gag at the insinuation.

Laurent moved to the table near the fireplace, quickly gathering up a few documents and sliding them underneath a heavy tomb. Something he did not want Nikandros to see, though Nikandros was not bothered by the idea of the king keeping secrets. Laurent sat in a light gilded chair, crossing one leg over the other. Nikandros stood in the middle of the room, and Laurent did not offer him a seat. They regarded each other in silence. Nikandros, with trepidation and lingering anger. Laurent, with interest and poorly concealed exhaustion.

“Do you wish to remain friends with Damianos?” Laurent asked in a reserved tone.

The question surprised Nikandros, though he did not let it show.

“Because your king possesses a bottomless well of forgiveness,” Laurent continued, “and an even deeper well of love. He will go to a great many lengths and suffer a great many troubles for someone he considers a friend.”

Nikandros lowers his gaze slightly and begins to listen to Laurent’s lilting Akielon.

“He will not, however, compromise his own beliefs for anyone. Not for you, and not even for me.” Laurent continued. “He will never betray a friend. But what is truly remarkable about that man: he will never betray himself.”

Laurent could feel Nikandros’ stubborn silence take on a note of reproach.

"I know this," Nikandros began. But Laurent waved his hand, and continued as if he had not been interrupted.

“The Damen you grew up with is not _gone_ , as you have likely been thinking these past few months. He did not ‘die’ in Vere,” Laurent added the phrase used by dissidents of the slavery reformation movement.

“He was, however, changed by it.”

Nikandros finally met Laurent’s eyes, and was surprised how intense they had grown.

“I do not need to tell you all that happened in Vere, because this is not about Damianos at all.”

 _Damn him,_ Nikandros cursed. He glared at the pale King. He glared because Laurent seemed to know him more intimately than he knew himself, and he had given the king only silence and reproach since their first meeting.

“This is about you. You are afraid of change.”

Nikandros tightened his fists as Laurent’s gaze heated up.

“Damen trusts you. Because of that, I am inclined to believe you are not a cruel man. You perhaps fear the change within the country, but you do not resent it.”

“I-” Nikandros began, but Laurent cut him off before the air left his lungs.

“You fear the change happening inside Damen at this moment. You fear the man he has become, because he is not the man you knew.”

Nikandros was about to agree with Laurent, but he was cut off once more, to his great irritation.

“He is the same man, Nikandros.” Laurent said with a startlingly loud voice; one filled with frustration and impatience.

Nikandros was frozen in place by that tone. He felt, to his chagrin, like a young boy reprimanded by his father. He was lost in a sea of thought — Laurent seemed to know him well. Nikandros did not seem to know himself at all. Did he truly fear Damen? Could Nikandros truly concede that his problem was not their ambitious political agenda, but with his own feelings of betrayal and loss?

“Regardless of title — prince, slave, or king — Damianos has always been a good man,” Laurent said as his hands stroked the laces at his wrist. “There are very few of those.”

Laurent’s gaze refocused on Nikandros, not quite reaching the hardness of before. Nikandros’ temper had almost completely subsided. He felt weariness settle in his bones.

“I ask you to reconsider your opinion of Damianos as he is now. I believe at one time he was your greatest friend.” Laurent continued, “And I know, despite his temper, that you are still his.”

Laurent kept his gaze firmly on Nikandros, their eyes betraying only fractions of the turmoil that waged within.

“Yes, Your Highness.” Nikandros bowed.

“You are dismissed.”

»»--------------------¤--------------------««

Nikandros wandered the halls for a long while, too riled to return to his room, but not yet ready to seek out Damianos. As he rounded the corner, he immediately became aware of a figure hesitantly walking a few feet away.

“You there” he said, noticing the sudden rise of the figure’s shoulders in shock. The boy whirled around, his wide frightened eyes meeting Nikandros’. The boy quickly cast his eyes down, as was proper. Nikandros recovered as well, his words stunted by the look of fear in the slave’s eyes. The boy could not be more than fifteen.

There were still slaves in the palace of Ios — though most of them acted more as servants, staff, and entertainment, rather than pleasure slaves. Regardless, all slaves had fully passed into adulthood — there were no longer any boys or girls under 18 years, as per the kings’ decree.

 _Perhaps his master is one of the visiting kyros,_ Nikandros thought.  

“What brings you to this area of the estate?” he asked aloud

“This slave begs your forgiveness. My master required more drink, and sent me to fetch it.”

“The kitchens are quite a ways from here.”

“This slave has become...lost.” The words trailed off in apology, but Nikandros could taste a bit of frustration in them as well.

Nikandros huffed in response. He happened to notice the guard near them staring at the boy with a gaze that soured Nikandros’ mood even further. The man stepped forward.

“It would be my pleasure to show him to his destination, Kyros,” he said in a lecherous tone, his eyes dragging up the beautiful honey skin of the young slave boy.

“That won’t be necessary,” the words surprising Nikandros as they exited his own mouth. “I will escort him.”

The guard gestured in a slightly rude and dismissive way, but returned to his post. The boy had remained in a tensed position, eyes fixed to a spot on the ground.

“Follow me.” Nikandros said.

The slave nodded.

As they made their way through the corridor, Nikandros attempted to consider the many words he had exchanged with both kings today, but his attention was completely taken by the near-silent footfalls of the young boy behind him. The guard had wanted him, that was clear. The boy was aware of his intentions, that was also clear.

“How long have you been in Ios?” Nikandros found himself asking. He could feel the slave’s questioning gaze on his back, but the footfalls remained steady.

“Only a few days, my lord. Though, I…” the slave hesitated. “I was born here, in the capital.”

“Oh.” Nikandros hadn’t expected that. “So was I,” he finished lamely. “So you must know much about the king then, if you grew up here,” he inquired.

“Everyone in Akielos knows of King Damianos, my lord” the slave replied quietly.

Nikandros fell into step with the boy.

“What is your name?”

“This slave’s name is Faustus.”

“Your name means good luck.”

Faustus hesitated. “It does.”

There was a pause in conversation which left a bitter taste in Nikandros’ mouth. He attempted to fill the silence caused by his clumsy words.

“What-” Nikandros paused, his voice catching on the sound. “What do you understand about the King’s time in Vere?”

Faustus tensed his shoulders, shocked by the questions and unsure of which answer would best please the Kyros beside him. Nikandros himself was shocked at his own abrupt and frankly inappropriate tangent.

“He was sent to Vere to act as a pleasure slave.”

“‘To act’ as a pleasure slave? Why not say he was simply sent as a slave.”

Faustus’ eyes widened, as though caught in a truth he did not mean to reveal.

“It was a mistake, my lord. The meaning is the same. I apologize.”

Nikandros debated whether or not to press the issue, but the kitchens were fast approaching and he felt as if he had already overstepped normal social convention, putting them both on edge.

“We have arrived,” Nikandros explained, opening the door for Faustus.

“This slave is infinitely grateful.”

Nikandros nodded and Faustus quickly slipped inside, heading towards the back where the wine cellar rested. As his small body whipped through the open room, Nikandros could make out bruising on his upper thighs. He quickly turned away, feeling as though he had overstepped again. He let the door slam behind him.

Faustus: a beautiful fifteen year old boy with bruising on his skin, fetching wine for his master in the early afternoon. The picture it painted was as unambiguous as it was familiar.

Nikandros was not delusional. He knew of the mistreatment of slaves, he was aware of the alarmingly young age at which some began training, he knew their rights were limited and unprotected.

He came upon an open window which overlooked a small garden, and rested his elbows upon the sill.

At fifteen years old, he and Damen were inseparable. They were living a beautiful life full of laughter — good food and sports, riding and sword fighting. They would race through the gardens and tackle each other down, they would sneak off to go play with the real swords in the arena.

At fifteen years old, Faustus was fetching drink for an old man while avoiding the libido of the guards, in the same palace where he and Damen spent their childhood frolicking from sunlit room to sunlit room.

Nikandros pushed off the balcony, noting how the sun had begun to reach its peak. In a few hours, it would set once more, and the final meeting would begin, as per Damen’s order. He heaved a sigh and began walking to the gardens. He intended to sort out his thoughts, as he had tried to in the hallway with Faustus.

Nikandros again felt a knot in his chest when he thought of the bruising on the young boy. Truly, Laurent was right. Nikandros did not resent the new legislature. Damen was right, as well. Nikandros had been blind to the suffering in this country for years. This shroud of privilege was pulled away from Damen in Vere, however Nikandros was still wading through it.

Perhaps he resented Damen. Not because he had been reduced to a lesser men, but because he had grown into a better one. He had left behind the arrogance and naivete of his youth, and had become a compassionate man who fought for the freedom of others — having tasted its absence himself.

It seemed this exile of friendship between himself and Damen had been one-sided. Perhaps Nikandros understands now Laurent’s frustration.

_“He is the same man, Nikandros.”_

Damen had changed, but he was still breathing. Nikandros could reach out and touch him, he could ride with him, spar with him, counsel him — if only he could let go of this childish grudge.

 _It has been a long day,_ thought Nikandros. But as he watched the sun slowly touch and slip past the center of the sky, he is reminded that it was far from over.

»»--------------------¤--------------------««

After Laurent had ordered him away, Damen walked to the stables to retrieve his mount, a stunning and massive black friesian he’d been gifted by his father at nineteen. As the stable-hands prepared her for riding, he let himself wallow in his frustrations.

He knew Laurent was unhappy with him. Truthfully, Damen was unhappy with himself. He had handled the day sloppily. He should have banished Ermolay immediately, he shouldn’t have let Nikandros rile him — nearly causing a scandal that would spread rumors within the palace and beyond about the unwieldy and childish behavior of the king.

“Your steed is ready, Exalted.” A young man interrupted his thoughts.

“Thank you,” Damen said, after a pause.

He mounted the friesian and set off to the fields. He lost his worries in the rhythmic beat of hooves, and the wind on his dark skin. Eventually, he came upon a river, and urged his horse to drink. His thoughts returned in the still air.

An argument between Nikandros and himself was unavoidable. They had been off-kilter since his return, and there was bound to be an explosion. A feeling achingly familiar to Damen filled him: the pain and anger of betrayal. He was unaware of the full extent of Nikandros’ misgivings until today. Perhaps he had deliberately turned a blind eye, afraid that he may find contradiction where he needed support.

As young men, they had both partaken in the pleasure offered by slaves, though neither had mistreated them. They were ignorant youths, who couldn’t see past their own fortune. Their mindset was wrong, but they were not evil — they did not take advantage of those weaker than themselves. Damen knows that he was sent to Vere to be humbled — so that he would return to his home a man capable of compassion and understanding.

Damen felt something nudge his shoulder, and stroked the impatient animal’s cheek, lost in thought. The sun had reached its peak in the horizon, and he knew Laurent would want to rendezvous before the last meeting at sunset, so he set a reasonable pace in the direction of the palace.

Damen knew that it was his purpose to affect change within Akielos. The road would be long and difficult, but he had faith in himself and his family. Nikandros had been a part of his vision for the future, as a steadfast friend and advisor, the last living connection to the memories of youth. He did not want to lose that.

Damen felt impatience and worry gnaw at his heart, unconsciously squeezing his legs and urging the horse on faster. He wanted to speak with his friend as soon as possible, to explain himself, and to try and reconcile. He could not let this wound fester any longer than it already had. However, the throne came first. Laurent and him needed to speak — the meeting that night had to go well. He would have to shove his worries to the back of his mind for now.

»»--------------------¤--------------------««

It had been several hours since Laurent had dismissed Nikandros that morning. He had no time to luxuriate in his thoughts after the meeting, but was instead busied by a long list of to-do’s before the evening’s convocation. He had been running around the palace and sending off certain documents to certain people, signing forms and speaking pleasantries to ambassadors. He felt dead, down to his bones.

Laurent currently found himself sitting in the same chair in which he had appealed to Nikandros. He smiled to himself, imagining that if someone were to come into the room they would perhaps believe that Laurent had not moved all day.

“How long have you been in that chair, Laurent?”

Laurent started, having been completely oblivious to Damen’s entrance.

“Not long enough,” he replied.

Damen gave a weary smile in response, walking over to claim the chair opposite Laurent. He moved to grab the documents from underneath Laurent’s arm in a familiar gesture but Laurent abruptly slid back in his seat, taking the documents with him — just out of Damen’s reach.

Damen froze and looked up at him with a stoic face.

“Is there something we need to discuss?” Damen asked in an even tone.

“The meeting tonight seems a good place to start,” Laurent responded briskly.

Damen leaned back in his own seat, deciding to allow Laurent the escape. Though they both knew Damen would not drop the inquiry so easily.

“Ermolay,” Damen said, deciding their first topic of the evening.

“Yes…” Laurent said.

“He will be at the meeting tonight.”

“I know.”

Though Damen had banished him from the courtroom that morning, Ermolay had not been stripped of his rank as Kyros, nor of his position in the summit. He was still the representative of Ellium, and his signature was still required at the signing tonight.

“We need him to concede,” Damen said. “Tonight.” he added.

If Ermolay refused to sign, the summit would be either adjourned or extended. In either case, his own misgivings would spread like a virus to the other council members. Nikandros was right, Ermolay could prove to be the undoing of this project.

“Laurent, please. Speak.”

Laurent looked into Damen’s eyes — Damen recognized the set of his brow, the straight line of his lips. He was shutting down, and Damen had no idea why.

Bringing his other arm to rest on the table, Laurent turned his body more fully towards Damen’s.

“Ermolay will sign.” Laurent said.

“How do you know?”

Laurent pursed his lips.

“Trust me, Damianos.”

Damen looked down at the papers underneath Laurent’s arm, noticing the obvious shift of discomfort as Laurent made sure to hide any writing.

“We do not lie to each other.” Damen said in a firm voice.

Laurent seemed to straighten in his chair at that. He turned his head to look out the window to his right, his gaze roaming over endless sea and sky. He could feel Damen’s patience in the room — feel the effort it took to allow Laurent this silence. In return, Laurent steeled himself and looked Damen in the eyes, one hard gaze meeting the other.

“I threatened his family.”

Damen said nothing. For a long while there was only the sound of the ocean.

“He would not yield otherwise,” Laurent added.

Laurent felt his heart pick up at the unusual extended silence of the man sitting across from him.

“I know you do not approve of my methods–”

Laurent stopped his words at the raise of Damen’s hand.

“I disapprove of your methods, and yet I am a constant beneficiary of their reward.” Damen let out a hard exhale.  

“It seems,” he continued, “that every time, you are the one who dirties their hands for our kingdom, because I am a fool who still believes that kindness and honesty guarantee just results.”

Laurent looked taken aback.

“No, Damianos” he said. “Your honesty is not ignorance.” Damen made to speak, but Laurent interjected. “We are partners in this, now. I do what you cannot, and you do the same for me. Those were our vows.”

“I feel like I cannot do anything right, these days,” Damen said, looking out the window with a sad expression. “I am quick to anger in council meetings, I am blind to the feelings of my friends, and I feel guilty for the actions you must take because I cannot bring myself to suffer the moral blow.”

“I am not ashamed of my actions.” Laurent said fiercely. “I blackmailed Ermolay because he proved a threat to our kingdom. Now, he will yield, and we will move forward. It is the law of nature that there are those who eat and those who are eaten.”

Damen made a distressed noise. Laurent recognized that his outlook on life appears cold and pessimistic to Damen. They were both shaped by drastically different upbringings — it is only natural they think differently about the world. However, a part of Laurent still felt the need to defend himself.

“I am surviving,” he said bitterly. “The means do not matter to me.”

“They matter to me,” Damen said, searching Laurent’s gaze.

“And you are a better man because of that,” Laurent said, taking Damen’s hands in his own.

Damen squeezed his in response. He turned his gaze down, lost in thought, while Laurent admired his windswept hair.

“Thank you,” Damen said, quietly.

“I love you, Damianos. Every part of you.”

Damen smiled again, resting his head on the table and gently closing his eyes as Laurent swept his fingers through his dark hair.

The two remained silent for nearly an hour, Damen had fallen asleep on the table and Laurent had sunken into a state of near meditation, lulled by the rhythmic lapping of waves. Though he would occasionally rouse enough to keep track of the sun as it slowly made its descent, making sure they did not sleep through the meeting that night.

“-say to him?”

“What?” Laurent said, catching only the last half of the sentence Damen muttered.

“What did you say to Ermolay?”

Laurent knew what Damen was really asking.

“You don’t need to know,” Laurent said with a gentle voice. His fingers resumed their motion, still resting in Damen’s curls.

“Would you have hurt them?” Damen asks after a pause.

“No.” Laurent said.

Damen closed his eyes once more. Laurent would’ve believe he’d fallen asleep again, were it not for one final whisper.

“The means matter to you.”

Laurent gave a weak smile, though no one could see it.

“Perhaps.”

Laurent felt Damen’s breathing even out, and once he was sure his husband was unconscious, he stood from the chair, taking the documents from underneath his arm. And with only the ocean as his witness, he burned the parchment upon the open flame of a lit candle.

Returning to the table, he reached within his suit and pulled out Damen’s lion-pin. He grabbed a cloth from their bed and rubbed the flaking blood off the pointed tip, closing it once more and laying it gently next to Damen’s head. He sat down, returning his hand to its place on the crown of Damen’s head. He let the ocean breeze slip into the room, the smell and sounds of the sea lulling them into a state of peaceful slumber.

»»--------------------¤--------------------««

Nikandros seated himself at the massive wooden table, quietly looking around at the other familiar faces who had been trapped in these negotiates for months alongside him. He caught Makedon’s eye, and nodded a greeting to his old general, current Kryos of Delpha. Makedon inclined his head in response, a characteristic glitter in his eyes and quirk to his lips.

Makedon turned from Nikandros to continue conversing with the woman beside him, Leandra: Kyros of Dice. Nikandros smiled at how the two of them leaned in close to continue their conversation. Or rather, Makedon leaned in and Leandra remained planted in her seat with a conciliatory yet fond gleam in her stubborn eyes.

 _Lion-woman, indeed_. Nikandros thought to himself.

Leandra was an older woman, but still glowing with energy and strength. She was well muscled and tall, her chiton falling over breasts bound in gauze. Combined with the dagger at her hip, Nikandros thought she appeared to be dressed in armor — suited more for battle than diplomacy.

Next to Leandra sat Meniados, Kyros of Sicyon, who appeared greatly irritated at the prospect of a long meeting held at night. Nikandros could agree on that at least, especially since they had begun the day as soon as light appeared over the horizon that morning.

To Meniados’ right was Ilka and Olek, the Kyroi of Mellos and Kesus, respectively. Ilka was a woman of great and rumored beauty. She had common Akielon features: olive skin and dark curling hair — though her skin was a rich mahogany instead of the lighter caramel typical of their people. Ilka had been Kyros of Mellos for nearly a decade, and she had created a great and profitable system of trade with other Akielon provinces — taking advantage of the fact that Mellos bordered the Ellosean Sea. As leader of one of the wealthiest provinces, Ilka was dressed in a finely made chiton and glittering gems. Her hair fell in cascading waves down her back, and she had colored her lips with the stain of crushed berries.  

Overall, Ilka presented an aura of refined and careful beauty — an allure that was made no less enchanting by the ostentatious presentation and obvious attention she gave to it’s upkeep.  It was different, yet no less striking than the rough and mindless beauty of Leandra. When they stood together it was quite an intimidating sight, especially since the two women were close friends as kyros of two neighboring provinces.

Olek, Kryos of Kesus, was the youngest representative at the table. Having recently inherited the position of his father, he generally kept quiet during negotiations and allowed control to the older members of the court. Once he found his footing however, Olek would prove to be an opinionated and strong-headed kyros. It was, however, disorienting when Nikandros found out Laurent was only 24 year old. Olek was his senior by nearly two years, and yet Laurent’s disposition aged him nearly a decade. As did — Nikandros was hesitant to admit — his impressive political rhetoric. Nevertheless, Nikandros had hoped Leandra would take a liking to Olek — perhaps even take him under her wing. He could learn much from her.  

Ilka and Olek appeared to be deep in conversation with the two kyros across from them: Mikulas and Heiron. Mikulas, a bitter older man who had been kyros of Thrace for perhaps too long, was speaking passionately to Ilka — of what, Nikandros couldn’t tell. Judging by the look on Ilka’s face, it was most likely the meager trade relationship between Mellos and Thrace, which Ilka had been closely monitoring and mediating, much to Mikulas’ distaste.

Next to him, Heiron — the old kyros of Aegina — sat quietly and watched the two kyroi duel while he seemed nearly about to fall asleep. Nikandros predicted that it wouldn’t be long before he began sending his son Alexon to these sorts of summits in his place.

On Nikandros’ direct left sat Halina, the Kyros of Isthmia. Long ago the province was conquered by Agar, a past Queen of Akielos. As such, Isthmia had kept an all-female reign since then. Halina had been on the council nearly the longest, but still held much of her fire and wit. Her grey hair was braided behind her back, and was adorned with gems and shining decorative chains. Her wrinkled face hid two piercing green eyes, another unusual Akielon coloring. Her gaze moved around the conversations at the table, and seemed to be evaluating each participant. It reminded Nikandros of Laurent. Perhaps because of that, he tended to refrain from speaking to her for more than a few minutes, afraid of what she might uncover.

And finally, Nikandros let his speculative eyes rest on the nervous figure of Ermolay, sat at the very end of the table beside Mikulas. The Kyros of Ellium kept his head down, and seemed to be squeezing his hands together under the table. Nikandros was not surprised to see him — he didn’t expect Ermolay to give up easily — but he was surprised by the man’s countenance. He looked positively ill. Nikandros hoped that he would refrain from throwing up on the document he was there to sign.

He was brought out of his internal musings by the sound of the main doors opening. Everyone turned to watch their kings enter the councilroom. Nikandros may at times disapprove of their relationship, but they did make quite an impressive pair. Both men were tall and well proportioned, each with the grace and strength of an accomplished swordsman. They wore the same garb as that morning — Laurent in a tightly laced black suit with a navy cape billowing behind him — an addition to adapt to the colder night air. Damen was dressed in an off-white chiton and long red cape, fastened at his shoulder by the royal lion-pin.

 _Free from blood_ , Nikandros mused.

Laurent took his seat at the head of the table, while Damen continued walking towards the opposite end. Nikandros tried to make eye contact with him, but found Damen stubbornly refusing his gaze. Frustrated, Nikandros shifted to look at Laurent, and was surprised to see him locked in a stare with Makedon. Something amusing must have passed silently between them, because Laurent quickly turned his head to the front with a twitch at the corner of his lips — an obvious move to ward off secret laughter.

Damen reached his place, and stood to face the members of the court.

“It is late, and I know we would all like to retire,” Damen said. “I appreciate your attendance here tonight, as well as your participation and open-mindedness over the past six months.”

“We are here to sign a document which will mark the beginning of a better future. It is a great change,” he paused, looking finally at Nikandros briefly before settling on Laurent. “And it will not be the last.”

Laurent made a gesture to a man in robes, who then presented the scroll to Damen. He unrolled it, placing the weights on each of the four corners, and grabbed the pen which rested next to it. Damen signed his name at the bottom of the paper, and handed the pen slowly to Ermolay, who was seated on his right. The shaking man refused to meet his gaze, but took the pen in both hands. The silence was broken only by the sound of his nervous breathing, as he seemed to be waging a war with himself whether to get up from his seat or not. Nikandros was observing him closely and could not understand what caused him to behave this way. If he was not going to sign the document, why take the pen?

Ermolay looked up slightly to gaze at the document, and turned his fleeting attention to Laurent for only a second, before returning to the document. Nikandros, surprised by the subtle move, dared a glance at Laurent.

The king looked positively vicious. Though the delicate Veretian brow was smooth, and the lips were relaxed into a soft line, his eyes raged with wikedness and threat of violence. Nikandros looked away immediately, almost frightened of being caught by that gaze, even though he suspected it would not be moved from Ermolay under any circumstance.

Nikandros was not an idiot. Laurent must have threatened Ermolay into signing the document. Nikandros did not know how or when, but Laurent had sunk his claws into the man, and there was no escape for him now. He did not envy Ermolay, nor did he pity him.

Nikandros considered Laurent, for a moment. The Veretian had no personal stake in this project — it affected only citizens Akielos. And though he may spend a lot of time in Ios, Laurent was the King of Vere. If Laurent, the king of a nation so recently an enemy of Akielos, was discovered to have blackmailed the Kyros of Ellium — scandal would not even cover it. It would be a political nightmare for Vere, and would severely injure international relations. It could even threaten Laurent’s crown, considering his own council was grasping at any attempt to remove him from the throne.

To risk his own kingdom for one man; it was not a bond Nikandros had ever seen before. He could only call on the love of legends — the all-encompassing, unconditional, self-sacrificing love of old. There was a chance, Nikandros thought, that Laurent held it for Damen, and Nikandros had been blind to it for all these years.

Nikandros was brought out of his musings by the sound of Ermolay’s chair scraping against the marble floor. He gracelessly rose from his chair, and moved to hunch over the document. Ermolay signed his scribbling signature, and quickly sat back down. His head remained bowed, and the room seemed to breath once again.

From there, the pen moved slowly down the right side of the table as the kryoi from all southern provinces of Akielos signed the document. Nikandros was the last, and he got up to sign without hesitation. When he turned to leave he caught Damen’s eye, who offered a smile. Nikandros couldn’t help but smile back, and he felt a great weight release from his heart.

Nikandros walked back to his seat and handed the pen to Makedon. As the older man got up, he clapped a hand on Laurent’s shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie before making the walk to the other end of the table. Laurent allowed it, having banished the look of intense malice to the recesses of his soul, where Nikandros hoped it would remain for some time.

Olek was the last to sign the document, and handed the pen back to Damianos once he had finished. Damen brought the document and the pen back to his throne next to Laurent. The robed man walked up to sign his place as the official witness, as was customary, but Damen shooed him away. He passed the paper and pen to Laurent instead, who looked over the document with a critical eye. He finally nodded, and signed his curling name at the bottom in traditional Veretian script.

Laurent rolled the document once more, and finally handed it to the robed man, who took it gracefully despite looking slightly confused by the unusual procedure.

“And so it is done.” Laurent said.

“And so it is,” Damen responded, speaking to the room. “You are free to take your leave. I thank you all again for your presence here. _οἱ θεοί ὑμῖν ἡγῶσι_.”

 _“οἱ θεοί ὑμῖν ἡγῶσι_ , _”_ the council responded.

Chairs scraped against the floor, papers rustled underneath hurried hands. Only an hour had passed since sunset, and everyone wanted to quickly return to their rooms to either retire early or prepare for the final banquet being held that night in the palace. Most of the delegates would return back to their respective provinces within the next few days, bringing with them copies of the legislature to be distributed among their own smaller provincial councils as well as their citizens. It would take time for the news to spread throughout Akielos of the changes, and it would take constant vigilance and ruthless punishment in order to enforce it.

Nikandros allowed himself to push those thoughts from his mind, however. He watched as the other members of the court began to leave. Makedon and Leandra seemed to have picked up their conversation where it left off, too absorbed in each other’s company to notice the other members had risen from the table.

Olek and Ilka talked as they made their way out of the room, though Ilka kept glancing back at where Makedon and Leandra were seated — her gaze stealing longing glances at Leandra’s laughing form.

Heiron, Meniados, and Mikulas all got up, either grumbling under their breath or simply making their way towards a side exit and back to their rooms.

Halina put a cold hand on Nikandros’ should before leaving, making Nikandros shiver unpleasantly. And finally, he watched Ermolay nearly leap from his chair and make his exit. His gaze once caught on Laurent, but he looked away once Laurent gave a slight nod.

Nikandros made to get up as well, but was stopped by a hand on his forearm.  

“I would like to speak with you,” Damen said.

“And I, you. However…” Nikandros could not find a way to say that he was exhausted beyond measure, and had barely the energy to form sentences — much less repair friendships.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Laurent chimed in gently, half of his attention devoted to something in the other direction. “It’s been a long day.” He used a tone unfamiliar to Nikandros, but regardless — he was grateful for the suggestion.

“Of course,” Damen said with a smile. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Nikandros smiled back.

Damen stood, putting a firm hand on Nikandros’ shoulder briefly before turning to Laurent. He brushed the back of his hand gently across Laurent’s cheek to get his attention. Laurent tore his eyes away from whatever he’d been focused on, warm eyes finding Damen’s easily.

Damen held his arm out, and Laurent gripped his forearm to lift himself out of his throne. They stood close together for a moment, a secret murmur passed between them that Nikandros couldn’t hear. Then they turned made their exit as well.

Nikandros sighed, feeling a lightness within his chest that was a combination of happiness and utter fatigue. He placed both hands on the table and pushed himself up, and decided to take the shortcut through a side door to reach his rooms faster.

»»--------------------¤--------------------««

Laurent sat on the edge of the bed, eyes blinking slowly as he attempted to focus enough to untie the laces at his feet. His body was moving slowly, and every muscle protested as he gave up on the boot and decided to start on the laces at his neck instead.

Damen had mentioned something he wanted to get for Laurent — a surprise to celebrate their victory. Laurent was flattered by the gesture, and since the meeting had finished earlier than anticipated, he allowed it.

He had only untied the first bow at his throat before he heard a knock at the doors. Damen would not knock. And yet, the guards would not let a stranger knock this late at night. Laurent quickly laced up his boot before moving from the bedroom to a seat in the open living room, already having an idea of who was on the other side.

“Come in,” he said.

“Good evening,” Nikandros said as he entered. Laurent saw him take in the room, and the absence of a certain man.

“He has stepped out. What do you need?” Laurent said in a voice with little patience.

Nikandros straightened, and sized Laurent up. He seemed to come to a decision, and began to speak.

“There is a slave,” he said. “In the palace. He must be one of the kryoi’s.”

Laurent was silent.

“I don’t know whose, however. I want to buy him.”

“I don’t understand how this is any concern of mine.”

“You misunderstand. He is only a boy.”

Nikandros panicked at the look of murder on Laurent’s face at that.

“No, forgive me. Let me try again.” He took a deep breath. “There is a slave, Faustus.”

Laurent closed his eyes.

“You know him.”

“He is Ermolay’s.”

“He is…that _μαλάκας._ ”

“Why do you want him?”

“I do not want him,” Nikandros said with disgust. “I found him this morning — wandering lost through the halls, covered in bruises.”

Laurent’s eyes go dim.

“Did you know?” Nikandros asks.

“Of the abuse?” Laurent sighs. “I did not.” He taps his fingers against his leg. “Faustus is still in boyhood. If Ermolay does not release him within the next day, he will be put to death. That is the law, now.”

“I am aware of that. I simply thought…” Nikandros waves his hand in frustration. “Nevermind, it is nothing.”

“Tell me.”

Nikandros takes pause at the intensity of Laurent’s voice.

“Ermolay is frightened and his pride is wounded. He may turn to anger. If he knows this is his last night with Faustus,” Nikandros pauses. “I don’t know. Is there anything you can do?”

Nikandros watches as Laurent moves from his seat and begins walking aimlessly, muttering inaudible curses in a language Nikandros doesn’t understand.

“Where is Damianos?” Laurent asks.

“I will find him.”

“Quickly.”

»»--------------------¤--------------------««

Nikandros had looked everywhere. He checked the banquet in case Damen was bringing Laurent dinner. He ran through the gardens to see if Damen was picking Laurent a bouquet. He checked the armory, the east wing, even the library.

Finally, out of sheer desperation, Nikandros burst through the doors of the kitchen. He waded through yelling cooks and frenzied servers, finally coming upon the quiet store-rooms. And nestled in the corner of the room, where Nikandros and Damen used to hide away with sweets, was the King of Akielos sitting on the dusty floor, eating pastries with a young boy.

Damen had his back turned to the entrance, and his bulk blocked most of his companion. However, Nikandros could see enough of the boy’s body to recognize the patterns of discoloration on his legs.

“These are Veretian?” Faustus asks with a mouth full of pasty.

“Yes,” Damen smiled. “I stole the recipe from the kitchens in Arles.”

“You stole from King Laurent?”

“Don’t tell him,” Damen says with a conspiratorial wink.

Faustus tried to hide a laugh, and Nikandros chose that moment to emerge from the doorway. He cleared his throat.

“Oh!” Damen said, standing up. “Nikandros.”

“Hello, my friend,” Nikandros said, reaching to bring him into a hug.

“He is Ermolay’s.” Nikandros said lowly into Damen’s ear, low enough that Faustus wouldn’t be able to hear it.

Damen tensed in his arms, but released him easily and turned back to sit with Faustus, who had been curiously watching their interaction. Faustus was obviously wary of Nikandros, as he would not meet his eyes with the ease that he met Damen’s.

Nikandros observed how Damen clenched his fist behind his back, but met Faustus’ eyes with light humor and warmth — despite the rage that was assuredly brewing inside his chest at the identity of the slave’s master.

This was a temperament that Nikandros did not recognize in Damen. He had always known his friend as a brash man, incapable of concealing his emotions — which brought great joy and suffering of those around him. Nikandros was impressed that Damen seemed to be learning this sort of emotional diplomacy. It spoke greatly his growth and maturity, and perhaps to the positive influence of his lover.

“This is Nikandros, Kyros of Ios — my most trusted advisor and greatest friend,” Damen said to Faustus.

“This slave has–,” Faustus looked to Damen. “I have met him before, actually.”

“Oh?”

“I simply helped point him in the right direction,” Nikandros said.

Damen was about to comment, but noticed another figure entering the doorway. Laurent stood, leaning heavily against the doorframe and taking in the scene with a careful expression.

“It’s been a long day,” Laurent said, in conclusion.

Nikandros nodded his assent to that.

“It has,” Damen agreed.

Even Faustus, who had been attempting to discreetly pull his short chiton over the bruises, nodded somberly. He felt Laurent’s gaze on him, but couldn’t bring himself to meet the Veretian king’s face — especially not after eating his stolen pastries in a room alone with his husband.

Nikandros watched as Damen and Laurent looked at each other, communicating in glances ever since Laurent arrived. Eventually, Damen turned to look at Nikandros. He made a gesture, and they both got up to exit the room.

Nikandros followed Damen to the doorway, but looked over his shoulder before the door closed to get a glimpse of Laurent gently lifting up the boy’s chiton to reveal the angry purple and green injuries that wrapped around his thighs.

»»--------------------¤--------------------««

The two men sat on either side of the door to the store-room while Laurent and Faustus spoke inside. They were exhausted emotionally and physically, but unable to rest — both keeping an eye out for any wayward kitchen staff.

Nikandros glanced over at Damen, and allowed himself to truly _look_ at his friend.

 _He is tired_ , Nikandros thought. Though he seemed to exude a weariness deeper than simple sleep deprivation.

Nikandros looked away.

“I am glad that you are king, my friend.” Nikandros said into the still air. “And I am sorry for my words this morning. I did not mean them.”

Damen leaned his head against the cool stone at his back.

“I am sorry as well. I was quick to anger, and shouldn’t have been so easily provoked.”

Nikandros waved his hand in dismissal.  

“It is my fault. I was blind. You have proven to be a man capable of great compassion and wisdom — I am sorry I ever let myself believe otherwise.”

Damen was silent. 

"You see a future for Akielos that I cannot. But Damen," Nikandros paused. "If there is ever anything you need... I will be there, my friend."

"Thank you, Nikandros," Damen said. 

Nikandros and Damen settled into a comfortable silence, listening to the indiscernible murmurs of the conversation happening behind the door.

“Nikandros.”

“Hm?”

“Do you think my father would approve of the man I have become?”

Nikandros looked over at Damen in surprise, and was struck by the melancholic expression on his face.

Theomedes would not have approved of an alliance with Vere, nor would he support a change to Akielos such as the one Damen and Laurent were attempting. But that is not what Damen asked.

“How could he not?”

Damen smiled, eyes still closed.  

Just then, the door to the store room finally opened inwards. Laurent emerged with Faustus following closely behind. Damen and Nikandros stood up, and walked out of the kitchens together and into the empty hallway, much to the bewilderment of the kitchen staff.

Damen caught Laurent’s eye, and was disheartened by the somber look his in gaze. Laurent shifted closer to Damen’s steadfast form, and Damen put a reassuring hand on his lower back. Laurent looked at Faustus.

“Would you like to stay in one of the empty guest suites tonight?” he said to the boy.

Faustus looked surprised at the question, and the respectful way it was worded — for a king addressing a meager slave. He nodded without hesitation, though.

“I will show you to your rooms, then.” Laurent said.

Before stepping out of Damen’s embrace, Laurent leaned his head close to speak in his ear.

“Fetch two guards for his door,” he whispered in Veretian, “and send Nikandros to get Paschal.”

Damen nodded. He watched as Laurent gestured for Faustus to follow him, and waited until they had turned the corner to speak to Nikandros.

“I need you to find Paschal and escort him to the guest room. Faustus will be staying in the west wing, down the hall where we left those chicken eggs.”

Nikandros laughed, “I remember that. Your father was furious.”

Damen also let out a chuckle. “You were banned from that wing and I was forced to study from morning until night for an entire week.”

Nikandros smiled in reminiscence.

“Now go,” Damen said. “The sooner we get this sorted, the sooner we can sleep.”

»»--------------------¤--------------------««

Damen walked through the dark halls, two guards trailing behind them, talking amongst themselves in hushed voices. No doubt they were intrigued by the odd request made by their King — to guard the door of a kyros. Which province they hailed from, the guards were not told. Either way, it was an important job — and an honor.

Of course, there was no kyros in need of protecting. The guards were to be placed outside Faustus’ door to prevent the unlikely visitations of Ermolay, or any other. Though Damen knew it was not necessary to have the door guarded, as the only people who knew where Faustus was staying were Nikandros, Laurent, and himself.

He had a feeling, however, that this was simply for Laurent’s own peace of mind. And so he made sure to gather two men who had been eyeing up several of the female servers at the banquet, to completely ensure the safety of the young boy behind the closed doors they were to guard.

Damen arrived at the west wing, and upon turning down the second to last corridor, found Nikandros leaning against the wall beside Faustus’ guest room.

Damen nodded to him, and directed the guards to wait at the end of the hallway until they left — at which time they were to remain stationed at the door until they were relieved by another pair early that morning.

“Did you find Paschal?” Damen asked.

“Yes,” Nikandros responded. “He should be nearly finished.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

Nikandros nodded casually, as if to say “ _Of course.”_

The door clicked open, and Paschal stepped out of the room, followed by Laurent.

Damen gave a small, private smile to his husband, reaching out with one arm to pull him close so that they stood together.  

The three men looked to Paschal, who appear quite somber.

“He is alright?” Damen asked, worried at the expression.

Paschal waved his hand, “He will be perfectly fine. The bruising will heal in a matter of weeks. I gave him something to numb the pain, but truly, there is no better cure than time.”

“Thank you,” Laurent said in a soft voice.

“Of course, Your Majesty. Exalted.” He nodded to both, and took his leave.

“Kyros,” Laurent said, turning. “Thank you for your help tonight.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he said, a bit surprised at the sentiment. Regardless, Nikandros bowed, making his leave.

“Nik,” Damen called after him. Nikandros raised his eyes at the childhood nickname, but made no complaints.

Damen walked over to him, and brought him into a firm hug. Nikandros squeezed back. They released each other, and Damen gripped him by the shoulder.

“Spar with me tomorrow.”

Nikandros gave a toothy grin.

“I might just win. You’re out of practice.”

Damen laughed. “I look forward to it.”

They parted, Nikandros giving a wave backwards as he turned down the hall and out of sight.

Damen sighed happily, and turned back to Laurent, who had been watching the interaction with bright eyes.

“When did that happen?” Laurent said, gesturing to the space where they hugged.

“We spoke briefly earlier, while you were in the storeroom with Faustus.”

“I was only in there for a few minutes, it must have been a brief conversation indeed”

“We said all that needed to be said.”

Laurent smiled. “Then, I am glad.”

“How is he?” Damen asked, changing the subject. He nodded his head towards Faustus’ door.

“His injuries will heal. I think he will be okay.” Laurent smirked. “He’s smart. I like him.”

Damen smiled, taking Laurent’s hand and guiding them out of the hallway. He waved to the guards, who moved to cover the entrance of Faustus’ room.

As they walked through the west wing, heading for the royal chambers, Damen remembered a question he had earlier that day.

“I happened upon Faustus by chance, in the kitchens. But why were you and Nikandros there?”

“Nikandros came to our rooms after you left, expecting to find you there.” he felt Damen’s surprise at that. “He seemed anxious, and frustrated. He was obviously uncomfortable asking for my help.”

“But he did,” Laurent continued. “I already knew Faustus’ identity, and his master, but I was unaware of their specific dynamic.”

“The bruising,” Damen said.

“Yes,” Laurent said bitterly. “I should’ve kept a closer eye on them this week. I’ve been so tired, though.”

“You can’t be expected to know everything that goes on in this palace. You’re just one man.”

Laurent made an irritated noise at that.

“Pascal looked oddly grim,” Damen said, changing the subject slightly.

Laurent’s silence was palpable.

“He must’ve…” Laurent began with difficulty. He cleared his throat. “He probably recognized the bruising.”

Damen made a gesture with his free hand that indicated he did not understand.

“Pascal worked in the palace, when I was a boy.” Laurent said, looking straight ahead.

Damen’s heart gave a terrible heave, as he finally understood Laurent’s meaning. As the royal family’s primary physician, Pascal would’ve been tasked with healing all injuries within the royal family, and — if their customs were anything like the Akielons’ — would give annual physicals to younger children to ensure their good health and proper development.

Paschal treated Laurent as a young boy. And, apparently, had grown familiar with the patterns of bruising indicative of abuse and — Damen seethed — rape.

He stopped, forcing Laurent to cease also. Laurent's eyes refused to meet his, but Damen pulled him into a fierce embrace regardless. His hands gripped Laurent tightly around the shoulders and waist, fingers digging into the structured vest he wore underneath the cape. His hands were desperate, as if they were afraid Laurent might slip right out of his grasp.

Laurent was tense in his arms. The embrace resembled a wrestling move more than an act of comfort, with how violently Damen was squeezing him. Damen moved the hand on Laurent’s back to his head, gently guiding it down to rest in the space between his neck and shoulder. Finally, Laurent relaxed, bringing both arms around Damen’s middle and letting out a soft sigh at the firm, verging on painful, embrace.

“I hope he suffers in the deepest pits of _τάρταρος_ ,” Damen spat.

Laurent squeezed him.

“Come on,” he said. “I want to sleep.”

»»--------------------¤--------------------««

When the two kings finally reached their rooms, they were nearly unconscious. The guards must’ve thought them drunk, with how much they swayed back and forth. But they were simply dead on their feet — exhausted beyond comprehension.

They closed the door behind them, and both immediately began shedding their clothes. Damen’s were a pile at his feet while Laurent was still sitting on their bed, trying to untie his boots for the second time that day.

Damen almost laughed, but that would’ve required too much effort. He kneeled down, naked at Laurent’s feet but feeling in no way amorous. He batted Laurent’s hands away, quickly making his way through the laces with practiced hands. He slipped the shoes off Laurent, and moved to unlace the rest of his suit.

Once he was done with the laces, he got up and moved around the room to snuff the candles left in their bedroom and open the window to let the warm ocean air in. When he turned back, Laurent had removed his clothes and was spread underneath the covers, eyes closed and hair fanned out around him.

Damen moved to join him, laying on his back and looking blearily up at the high ceiling. He was nearly asleep, lulled by the sounds of the ocean and Laurent’s breathing, when he opened his eyes at a movement next to him.

Laurent flipped over onto his stomach, and scooted closer to him so that his head was pillowed on Damen’s chest and his hand rested over his stomach. Damen smiled, and moved his own arm to embrace Laurent, pulling him closer so that they were pressed together.

If they had any more energy left, they would murmur their _“I love you’s”_ in the darkness. But both were already asleep in each other’s arms, and the only sound left in the room was the steady breathing of the two kings and the rhythmic crash of the ocean waves against the shore.

 

»»--------------------¤--------------------««

 

[[Quick art I did of that one scene]](http://damnmads.tumblr.com/post/169159914943)

Legend:

King of Akielos: **Damianos**

King of Vere: **Laurent**

Kyroi of Northern Akielos:

  * Delpha (largest & northernmost border-province): **Makedon** (previously Nikandros’ general of Delpha).
  * Sicyon: **Meniados** (mentioned in novel)
  * Dice: **Leandra** (“lion-woman”, friend of Ilka)
  * Mellos: **Ilka** (“torch of light”, friend of Leandra)
  * Kesus: **Olek** (“to defend”, youngest council member)



Kyroi of Southern Akielos:

  * Ios (capital of Akielos): **Nikandros** (previous kyros of Delpha).
  * Isthmia: **Halina** (“woman of serenity”, Isthmia has been kept to all-female kyroi since it was conquered by the Queen of Akielos, Agar.)
  * Thrace: **Mikulas** (“people’s triumph”, an old man)
  * Aegina: **Heiron** (mentioned in novel, another old man)
  * Ellium: **Ermolay** (“heap of stones”, reigning champion asshat supreme)



 

**Author's Note:**

> μαλάκας - "bastard"  
> οἱ θεοί ὑμῖν ἡγῶσι - "may the gods guide you" ; I used this to serve the purpose of a standard formal farewell. Like a "peace be with you" or a "safe travels". 
> 
> Constructive criticism & comments welcome. I want to know what you thought about it!


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